Seawell: battle is joined

The amazingly sophisticated setup I used to illustrate the battle. The pens show the wall of the wreckers' camp, and the paintpots are structures inside. The dried seed pods are the underbrush surrounding it. Home-made tokens show the PCs and their allies (later on, wrecker tokens appeared too). It's just to give an idea of how things are laid out.

  The diplomats, flushed with success, begin the journey back to the wreckers’ camp. Their new allies are shy, but seem cheerful; their names turn out to be Two-Rocks-Lying-Parallel, Impending-Laughter and To-Glisten-Under-Sun. Most of the journey passes in tactical discussion, though there are frequent diversions into cultural differences, such as proper etiquette during moulting, the construction of woven huts, and not calling people Small Human. The Professor’s rather classical Draconic is the source of some confusion and not a little amusement. Hurrying along, they reach the area of the camp well into the evening, about an hour before they planned to attack. It is dark now, but the sky is clear, with bright starlight and a waxing moon. The wreckers seem not to be manning their tower tonight – perhaps thinking that in such fine conditions, they’re more likely to attract suspicion that catch any victims.

  While the others travelled, Elefthenea and her guards have been watching the camp closely, hidden in the scrub nearby. The three wreckers they met have not returned, and there’s a certain amount of bustle that might be consternation. She gets the feeling that the wreckers are alarmed by the recent disturbances to their work. Preparations seem to be underway for departure in the morning – boxes are being organised as though for packing, and the wreckers have been checking their pack-mules and horses. After a while, Elefthenea notices a small figure striding amongst them. It’s impossible to make out much at this distance, even for an elf, but it seems to be another gnome like the Professor. Perhaps there’s another wizard with the wreckers? They’d best be careful. There seem to be at least two sentries watching the camp, from a raised rampart inside the walls.

  With a large area cleared around the camp, it’s impossible to sneak up to the walls without risking being seen. Very few of them have scouting experience, and they don’t want to be caught in the open. Instead, they decide to try and silence the guards first. Peering through the bushes, the Professor examines the area carefully, but regretfully concludes it’s too far for his more impressive spells to have much effect. Even a ghost sound wouldn’t be loud enough unless he stood in the middle of the clearing, which is out of the question. Raylin, however, is seized with inspiration. She got a fairly good look at the wrecker patrol earlier, and assures the others that she can take on one of their forms for long enough to distract the guard. Her plan is to tell the sentry they’ve been attacked, and lure them into the open where the others can ambush them. Hopefully, they’ll have time to break into the camp before the rest of the wreckers can wake up.

  The Professor tentatively raises the possibility of the lizardfolk leading the attack. To their dismay, they learn the lizardfolk can’t see in the dark any better than the humans.

  “It’s too cold at night to go outside,” explains Impending-Laughter, looking puzzled. “We don’t usually hunt in the dark. Why would we need to see?”

  For the attack, they decide to form into groups of three with complementary strengths. Two of the lizardfolk will guard the Professor, who can see in the dark and communicate with them. The third will go with Raylin and Fhastina. Morgan, Lawson, Elefthenea and Mr. Barky form the third group, and will lead the charge on the camp.

The battle

  Midnight approaches. Under the pale light of the stars, Raylin closes her eyes in supplication to her Goddess and focuses on the wrecker she spoke to earlier. To the surprise of the lizardfolk, and the pleased approval of the other heroes, her form seems to shift gently, and in seconds they are staring at a tough-looking man.

  “How do I look?” comes Raylin’s voice.

  “Um... you look fine, but you still sound like yourself,” points out Elefthenea.

  “Yes, I know. Professor Godalming, can you supply a suitable voice?” she asks. The gnome looks mildly affronted.

  “It should be exceedingly simple.”

  The disguise won’t last for long, so Raylin turns and hurries into the clearing, near where the guards are standing. It’s not until she’s thirty feet into the open, under the startled eyes of two sentries with crossbows, that she realises she doesn’t know the name of the body she’s wearing.

  “Over here, quickly!” comes from somewhere nearby, and she works her mouth in approximate time to the sounds, wishing she’d had time to practice this. Luckily it’s pretty dark, and the voice that comes out is a good approximation of what they heard earlier. One of the sentries leans down.

  “Nale, that you? Where are the others?”

  Nale. Thank the Goddess. Turning things to best advantage is exactly where Raylin’s comfortable, though ideally crossbows would not be playing a major role.

  “Ran into a pack of those curst lizards. Been running for hours, but we shook them off. The others are hurt, about a mile back here. Come on, before anything finds them!” She turns before they can reply, feeling the disguise starting to fray, and heads back towards the trees.

  “Hoy, wait up there! Nale!” One of the sentries vaults down the fence, obviously trying to catch up. He’s winded for a moment by the fall, and Raylin puts on a bit of speed. The other turns towards the camp, and the watching adventurers silently groan to themselves. This was exactly what they hoped to avoid. Fhastina claps a hand to her hip pocket, and whispers a word of power. The magical pearl lying within pulses with warmth, and a sense of confidence rushes through the group.

  “Wake up, you laggards! We got wounded here! Look lively!” The voice rises through the night air, above the chirping of insects and the chittering of bats, full of alarm.

  Recovering from his jump, the sprightly sentry manages ten steps away from the wall before Morgan’s crossbow bolt whips past his nose and buries itself in the wall with a thrumming noise. His eyes widen and he’s midway through a turn when the Professor sends a second bolt straight through his shoulder and sends him reeling with a squeal of pain and fright.

  The alarm in the voice of his mate becomes rather more pronounced.

  Just as he reaches the wall, a fire-hardened javelin punches through his neck, pinning the corpse to the wooden wall. Two-Rocks-Lying-Parallel lets out a gleeful hiss and plucks its second javelin out of the ground. The other sentry ducks down below the palisade.

  Faint sounds of movement come from inside the camp. Now that the alarm’s raised, stealth is useless, and the heroes rush out towards the walls while there’s nobody to shoot at them.

  “I’m going over the top!” calls Morgan, stowing his weapon as he runs. “Let’s get that gate open!”

  He charges full-force at the wall, leaping up and planting his feet against the wooden stakes as he throws his arms up. Midway through the jump, his determined expression alters to one of concern as he realises he’s misjudged it, and the wood slams jarringly into his ribs. Only his outstretched arms keep him from falling. Elefthenea grabs his feet and boosts him over, and he lands in a crouch on the other side. A second later, something thuds against the wall, and Lawson’s bronze-clad form drops next to him, shield raised. They start moving towards the gate, keeping low to avoid attention. It’s dark in the camp, with only starlight to guide them. Nevertheless, a lucky crossbow bolt tears a line across Morgan’s armoured shoulder, sending him staggering. Mr. Barky comes sailing over the wall and vanishes into the shadows, seeking enemies.

  Outside the wall, the Professor strokes his chin for a moment, then gestures along the palisade, mouthing silently. As he gestures, a gruff voice erupts somewhere ahead.

  “I’m over the wall, boys! Get in here behind me! Start the summoning!”

  Somewhere inside the camp, shadowy figures start moving towards the apparent source of the noise.

  Ignoring the erratic fire of the sleepy bandits, Morgan and Lawson lay hold of the bar and wrench it free, heaving it aside and leaving the gate free to open. Elefthenea immediately slips inside and looks around, her acute elven vision taking in the scene at a glance. Seeing a group of wreckers emerging from tents, she summons up her magic and sends a pulse of power through the ground. With a creaking sound, the rough grass bursts into uproarious life, twining wildly around everything in reach, and pinning several wreckers where they stand. Startled shouts echo around the camp.

  “These bandits are very disorganised,” comments the Professor. “They’re literally letting the grass grow under their feet.”

  He turns to his bodyguards and gestures encouragingly.

  “Quick, while they’re distracted! Just watch out for the magic grass.”

  Seeing the plan apparently successful, and heartened by this exhibition of shamanly power, the lizardfolk squawk fiercely and rush into the camp. The Professor follows at a more sedate pace.

  Raylin hovers on the outskirts of the fight, crossbow in hand. The grass-bound wreckers are tempting targets, though the darkness makes it hard to draw a bead. Nevertheless, occasional cries of pain suggest that her aim isn’t too far wrong. Fhastina rushes past, kama in hand, and starts raining blows on a startled wrecker who fends her off desperately with the stock of his crossbow.

  An angry, chanting voice rises above the melée from somewhere amidst the grass, and a tingle of magic ripples across the camp. Mr. Barky and Impending-Laughter slow and crumple to the floor, unmoving. Elefthenea cries out in alarm, but there’s nothing she can do right now.

  Morgan, Lawson and Fhastina are soon embroiled in a vicious fight near the gate. From somewhere in the shadows, a dagger comes flying out towards Morgan, but glances off harmlessly. The Professor frowns and conjures light with a snap of his fingers. A glowing human figure erupts from the ground, spilling harsh white light across the battlefield. One of his bodyguards, seeing this as an invitation from the spirits, rushes forwards to join the fight.

  The remaining lizardfolk, out of javelins, plunges off towards the trapped wreckers, hissing battle-cries. A wrecker deflects two strokes with a curving hook-hand, but the third drops her. From somewhere nearby, lightning flashes out across the battlefield, searing the ground and narrowly missing Lawson. One of the wreckers manages to wrench himself free of the weeds and moves to confront the lizardfolk. Seeing that the wreckers have a spellcaster, Raylin backs off and calls for the Goddess’ protection.

  Trying to avoid hitting any of her allies, Fhastina mistimes an attack and gets a crossbow slammed painfully into her shoulder. Annoyed by the mistake, she switches stance and pulls off a perfect pattern than even her mentors would have approved, striking the unfortunate wrecker eleven times with fists, feet, weapons and knees. The force of the blows lifts him a good five feet into the air, dead before his freshly-mutilated body hits the ground. Somewhere nearby, astonishingly, snores still rise from one of the tents.

  Something slams into Lawson’s spine with a metallic clack, bruising him, but doesn’t quite make it through his chainmail. A stocky, bearded creature has appeared behind him, swathed in smoky grey gear, and gripping a long knife. Watching the fight from behind a tent, the Professor recognises it immediately: no decent gnome, but a grim, untrustworthy dwarf! A few dwarven artisans work for the nobles, but it’s the first he’s heard of one in such a benighted place. He’s momentarily startled, but not too startled to send a blast of raw magic hurtling towards the treacherous creature, eliciting a shout of pain. The spell stuns it long enough for Lawson to recover, turn around, and cleave the wretch’s head from his shoulders with a lucky strike. Beside him, Morgan and the remaining lizardfolk finish off the last of their opponents.

  Off in the dark far corner of the camp, the lone lizardfolk faces off against the last two wreckers. The wreckers land a couple of nasty blows, but the wounded hunter refuses to give any ground, and the demoralised wreckers fall beneath its spear. Seeing the melée by the gate is over, the sorceress begins chanting again. A great desire for sleep washes over the invaders, and the lizardfolk crumples, but the others remain firm. Calmly reloading his crossbow from his position by the wall, the Professor settles it into his shoulder, draws careful aim on the gesturing sorceress, and lets fly. There’s a gentle thud, and she crumples. The fight is over.

  From a single tent near the gate, amidst a heap of bodies and the overwhelming scent of strong liquor, rises the snoring of someone utterly and blissfully unaware of the sudden and comprehensive doom that has arrived.

Seawell: diplomacy

  It’s late afternoon, and there’s several hours until nightfall. Leaving a party to watch the camp, an expeditionary force head back towards the river, hoping to contact the lizardfolk who’d already clashed with the wreckers. Raylin is nominally in charge as the diplomatic expert, but she speaks no Draconic; the Professor and Fhastina will have to translate. The Professor’s research on lizardfolk culture should prove useful.

  The Professor remembers that lizardfolk tend to live close to water, as they’re semi-amphibious and eat plenty of fish. Passing one of the damaged boundary markers, they head into what they assume is the tribe’s territory, with a grumpy, sleepy Cedric circling overhead looking for signs of lizardfolk, carefully described by the Professor. The land turns from shrubland to forest, with swampy patches. After an hour or so, a surge of excitement comes from the owl, who drops down to join them and indicates a direction with one wing, before promptly settling back down to sleep. They turn their steps in that direction, moving slowly and cautiously, with weapons tucked away so as not to alarm the creatures. Fhastina spots lizardfolk footprints, growing more common, until they find themselves on some kind of trail. The Professor and Fhastina begin to call out peaceful greetings in Draconic, hoping to attract some attention of the friendlier kind.

  After a while, a rhythmic wooden clunking comes to their ears. They assume it’s some kind of work going on, perhaps building, and keep going towards it. As they continue, they realise the noise is too regular to be any kind of work; it must be a signal. Sure enough, a few minutes further on they spot two lizardfolk standing by the trail, looking in their direction. One is pounding rhythmically with a spear-haft on a nearby tree. They stop immediately on spotting the party, and adopt a wary stance, gripping their spears tightly.

  “Who are you?” calls out the bolder of the pair, its tail waving agitatedly.

  Only Fhastina has ever seen a lizardfolk in the flesh. The creatures are about six foot tall, with slightly angular bodies. Their faces resemble iguanas, with wide mouths and baggy throats, and large black eyes that stare distrustfully at the intruders. A spiny reddish cresh tops their heads, and continues down their spines to the tip of the tail. Short skirts of woven reeds, striped with colours, are wrapped around the creatures’ waits, and various pouches and gourds hang off them. They are disturbingly crocodilian, distinctly muscular, and armed. They wait.

  Thankfully, all three remember the fundamental principle of lizardfolk diplomacy: don’t smile. For some reason, the sharp-fanged creatures don’t react well to people flashing teeth at them. Maintaining a stern face, Raylin explains (through the Professor) that they’re here to deal with the other humans who have attacked the lizardfolk, and wanted to discuss the matter. The lizardfolk look at each other and mutter in low voices in a broad dialect of Draconic that the mammals can’t quite catch, except the word “elders”. Then they stop, make a “follow us” gesture with their spears, and head off down the path, not looking back.

  A few minutes down the track, the sounds of daily life become audible on the wind. In a clearing amidst the trees, a number of crude buildings have been carefully assembled. They look most of all like huge, upturned birds’ nests, woven from supple branches and draped with moss. Alongside eight larger ones, presumably homes, there are a dozen or so smaller structures. A low hedge perhaps four feet tall encircles the village, and several lizardfolk are visible sitting at work or strolling about. A few youngsters are playing some game with several coloured sticks.

  “How many do you think live here?” enquires Raylin, quietly. The others shrug. If the creatures lived in relative luxury, with plenty of possessions, then it could be as few as a dozen adults living in the huts. On the other hand, if they live humbly and snuggle up at night, there might be as many as fifty.

  As the humanoids approach, the lizardfolk around the village catch sight of them and freeze. The children drop their sticks and dart behind one of the houses, peering out eagerly through the moss. Their escorts make some gesture that appeases the others, and stroll straight towards one of the huts. They crouch down in front, and start speaking to someone inside. It’s not entirely clear whether they’re being polite to the occupant, or simply trying to get a good view through the low doorway. After a couple of minutes, they stand up and move aside to let someone out.

Sound-of-North-Wind

  The figure who emerges is clearly someone of note. The lean, wiry lizardfolk has an elderly look, and wears a short cape of brightly-coloured feathers in addition to the usual skirt. In its left hand it clasps a tall staff, carved in a spiralling design and stained blue. A large lizard scuttles after it, measuring three feet from nose to hindquarters, and with a tail of nearly the same length. The shaman spots the visitors and strides towards them, giving them measuring looks. Professor Godalming and his owl earn a particularly long appraisal. By this time, the rest of the village have gathered around, staying well out of reach, but staring unabashedly at the visitors. Many seem never to have seen non-lizardfolk before, especially the children. The shaman stops in front of the wizard, who it seems to have judged is the leader of the group, and makes a gesture that is not precisely respect, but the acknowledgement of one professional to another.

  “I am Sound-of-North-Wind, shaman of my people, speaker for the ancestors and the spirits. This,” it gestures to the lizard, “is Patience.”. Clearly the shaman is asserting its authority in the situation. Its speech is confident, and it seems to have a better grasp of High Draconic than the others. Once its words have been translated, Raylin takes up the unspoken question, reeling off some suitably impressive introductions. The Professor translates them deftly, polishing his own a little more than is strictly accurate, at which Fhastina sighs inwardly but refrains from comment. Cedric, too is introduced, but declines to wake up. The Professor extends a friendly hand to the iguana, which hisses in a not-unfriendly fashion.

  By this point, the ever-growing circle of lizardfolk are regarding the wizard steadily, with a wondering expression. It occurs to him that, with gnomes being fairly scarce in Culchus, it’s unlikely a single lizardfolk in the whole peninsula has ever even heard of gnomes, let alone seen one. Sound-of-North-Wind notices what’s going on, and turns to mutter a few words in the local dialect, blinking its eyes good-humouredly. Something about “friendly”, “stranger” and “hilarious” is all the visitors can make out, as the villagers break off their stares and withdraw a little more, trying to act naturally.

  “I must apologise for my people,” explains the shaman. “It is the first time many of them have encountered humans, and none have ever before seen such a very small human.” Professor Godalming rapidly reviews his options, and decides it’s easiest not to attempt any explanations. He mimics the blinking gesture. “I understand,” he replies graciously. “It’s quite all right.”

  Seating themselves in a circle of carved rock seats, the visitors explain that they’ve come from Seawell. Sound-of-North-Wind looks reluctantly blank.
  “It is a city about three days’ travel south of here,” explains Fhastina. A look of comprehension dawns on the shaman’s scaly face.
  “Ah. I have never been three days’ travel south of here,” it says, with the confidence of one for whom such a journey would be entirely superfluous. Nevertheless, it seems a little impressed. “But why have you come so far?”
  “We came to visit our people in the lighthouse on the coast,” continues the Professor. “It seems that some other humans have killed them, and caused trouble for you as well.” Sound-of-North-Wind makes the universal sound for ‘it all becomes clear now’, and nods rapidly.
  “Ah! You are from the Tribe of the Tall Stone House, then?”
  “You could say that.”
  “They are all dead now, it seems. Some other humans came and killed them, and the little moon no longer shines from the crest of the house. It is a shame, there was goodwill between our tribes.” The shaman looks regretful, and scratches Patience’s side with a gentle claw, evoking a pleased hiss.
  “Well, we have come to get rid of these evil humans,” says Raylin, seeing a good opportunity. “We know that they have attacked your tribe as well, and thought that your people might want to join us and avenge yourselves.” Fhastina obligingly translates.
  “We saw the totem pole they had stolen from you,” adds the Professor.
  “Totem pole?” enquires the shaman, tilting its head in puzzlement.
  “Uh... there was a large tree covered in sacred symbols, which the humans have taken from you.”
  “Ah! Yes, Small-Human, they came into our lands and killed a great tree-spirit, which our people have venerated for centuries.” The lizardfolk seems unable to cope with their names, devoid as they are of any obvious meaning.
  “So perhaps your people would like to join us to fight against them,” suggests Raylin hopefully. The shaman regards her for a minute, then rises and gestures for them to follow.

  They walk in silence for a few minutes, out of the village and into another clearing. There are a score or more of large earthen mounds here, and as the visitors approach, they see at least half-a-dozen skeletons lying atop mounds. It seems the lizardfolk lay their dead upon anthills to be picked clean of flesh. Both Raylin and the Professor are vaguely repelled by this pagan custom, but they say nothing. A crossbow bolt still juts meaningfully from one of the skulls.
  “Some of our people tried to stop them from taking the tree, but they were killed with the little-spears-that-fly. We found their bodies when the humans had gone, dragging the corpse of the tree behind them,” says Sound-of-North-Wind heavily. There isn’t much they can say, except vague expressions of condolence. After a minute or two of generic respectfulness, they head back to the village. Sound-of-North-Wind explains that it has responsibilities to its people. It can’t just leave them to go seeking revenge, though it will certainly protect them if the wreckers approach their village. However, perhaps some of the tribe would be willing to help them. A meeting has been called, and the elders and the tribe are gathering to question them.

Recruitment

  Back in the circle of stones, several more elders are now waiting, though they seem content to let the shaman speak, making only occasional interjections. A couple of younger lizardfolk drag up a steaming wooden cauldron of some hot liquid, somewhere between tea and vegetable soup, with a slight hint of fish. Crude earthenware bowls are dipped into the pot and handed round. It’s strange, but not revolting, and the visitors accept it to avoid seeming rude.
  “We are a peaceful people,” resumes the shaman. “We are not like some of the violent tribes in the south.” At this depressing news, Raylin starts wondering if they can contact any of the violent tribes in the south, who might be a bit more useful in the current situation. Of course, those tribes might not be so willing to sit around chatting with a group of ‘humans’.
  “We understand that,” replies the priestess soothingly, trying to establish a new line of attack. Her initial plan of getting the angry young men of the tribe to rally to their metaphorical banner has been somewhat thwarted by the discovery that most of them seem to be dead already.
  “And there are so few of you,” comments one of the elders. “And this one is very small.” While the Professor bites his lip, Fhastina translates for Raylin, who seizes her chance.

  “The rest of our group is watching their camp,” she explains. “And we can call up magic against them.” This proclamation sends a bit of a ripple through the assembled throng, now approaching forty lizardfolk of all ages. Sound-of-North-Wind nods sagely, with an eye on the Professor.
  “As I suspected. You are a shaman, Small-Human?” it asks, peering at the sleeping owl. The Professor once again takes the path of least resistance.
  “My power is not quite the same as yours, Sound-of-North-Wind, but I have similar talents, yes,” he explains. He places his bowl of... something... on the ground and stretches a hand over it, letting the power flow out. The steam disappears, and the bubbling liquid falls still, then bulges upwards, a glassy sheen running across it. White tendrils creep down the sides and begin to stretch across the ground, leaving a glistening trail of frost. He reaches down, flips the bowl, and tips the frozen block out into his other hand, holding it up for inspection. The lizardfolk look suitably impressed; and even the shaman, who probably realises what a minor working this is, hisses appreciatively.
  “Lady Raylin can also call on the power of the... spirits,” adds the Professor, in response to a meaningful look. “And another companion, who is watching the camp, is a shaman. Lady Fhastina here and our other friends are powerful warriors.”

  Seeing the lizardfolk are warming up to them, Raylin begins to reel off a call to arms, which the Professor obligingly translates. With a mixture of self-promotion and agitprop they address the circle of lizardfolk for some time, assuring them of victory and offering up the chance to gratify the dead and restore peaceful balance to the spirit world. With the wreckers gone, everything can return to normal and they will have nothing left to worry about.

  To be quite honest, the lizardfolk mostly seem to view it as the humans’ business, since they travelled for a whole three days from a distant homeland to destroy these other humans. Moreover, several of the tribe have already been killed, and they know the wreckers are dangerous. They’re supportive, but not particularly inclined to intervene. Nevertheless, three fit-looking hunters ask the elders’ permission to join them, and after some debate, they agree.

Calling the Ancestors

  With the war-party assembled, a very elderly elder declares that it’s time to invoke the spirits to guide them. The lizardfolk cheer and beat their tails on the ground at the news. Sound-of-North-Wind disappears into its hut for a moment, emerging with a small bowl. The shaman begins to chant rhythmically, though the visitors can’t make any sense of the words, if there is any.

  After a while, Sound-of-North-Wind falls silent, as do all the others. It begins walking around the clearing, pressing its forehead against several of the larger trees, quietly asking the spirit of each one to follow the warriors. At last, it proclaims that the forest grants them a boon.

  A few gestures direct them all to a cleared patch of land, where the lizardfolk form a circle. Sound-of-North-Wind steps inside, clutches its staff in both hands, and begins to pound rhythmically on the ground. Patience winds around the circle, weaving in and out of the assembled legs, and hissing gently. A slow song rises from the throats of the tribe as they watch the invocation. At last, the shaman announces that the spirits of the earth have been assembled.

  Taking the bowl, the shaman fetches water from the village stream. Each of the three lizardfolk volunteers squats on the ground so it can be sprinkled with the water. Sound-of-North-Wind then turns to the humans, and hesitates, giving them a questioning look. Raylin is rather scornful of these primitive rituals, but it shouldn’t do any harm, and the Goddess approves of tactical deception, so she politely crouches and accepts the blessing. The Professor has no time for paganism, but it’s an interesting experience, and since he doesn’t believe in this mumbo-jumbo it certainly can’t hurt – he doesn’t even have to bend down. Finally, Fhastina is a soldier, pragmatic enough to accept any blessing that comes her way before a battle. All three are sprinkled with water as the lizardfolk look on approvingly.

  Finally, they all return to the clearing where the dead lie. Here the other elders join in the ceremony, explaining to the ancestors what is going on, and hoping that it meets with their approval. It’s a strangely informal, conversational affair, until at last Sound-of-North-Wind announces that the ancestors have heard them and given their blessing. They leave, with cheerful chatter breaking out from the lizardfolk.

  Back in the village, the volunteers scurry off to fetch wooden spears and sturdy tortoiseshell shields. Precisely why such a peaceful tribe have skilfully-crafted tortoiseshell shields is a topic left carefully undiscussed. The visitors, who seem not to have much in the way of equipment, are also offered shields, and they accept two, more out of curiosity than anything else. Fhastina prefers to stay unencumbered.

  In return, Professor Godalming takes a piece of parchment from his supplies and carefully draws a picture of Patience, who sits quietly watching him. This he presents to Sound-of-North-Wind as a token of their respect. The shaman seems very pleased with the unexpected gift, and examines the parchment carefully.
  “What animal does this skin come from?” it asks.
  “A cow,” says the Professor, trying hard to remember.
  “I see...” says the shaman. “Yes. Ah – what is a cow?” The gnome has to stop and think for a moment. “It’s a large mammal, with four legs and curved horns. It eats grass.”
  “A deer?”
  “Quite like a deer, yes. But bigger, and stronger.” Sound-of-North-Wind seems quite impressed, and intrigued.
  “It goes ‘mooooo’,” adds the Professor, helpfully.
  “‘Mooooo...’?”
  “Yes, ‘mooooo’.” The shaman repeats ‘mooooo’ a couple of times, earnestly, to make sure it’s right. Thanking the Professor gravely for the gift – and even managing an approximation of his name – it bids them good hunting and turns away.

  As it walks slowly back towards its hut, they can hear it quietly practicing ‘mooooo’ to itself and fingering the parchment admiringly. Somehow, Raylin gets the impression that for years afterwards, Sound-of-North-Wind will be showing the parchment to visitors and telling them all about the great sickle-horned beast whose hide it is, which lives in the mountainous lands of the humans and goes ‘mooooo’.

Seawell: a murky deal

  Having checked the immediate area is secure, they return to the lighthouse and collect Morgan. He’s been watching their progress from the tower as best he can.

  They spend quite some time discussing how best to lay their ambush. In the end, they decide to lurk in the dunes. It is a long and uncomfortable wait, with sand slowly working its way beneath their clothing and the sharp grasses grating on bare skin. At last, the elves spot distant signs of movement, and they scramble into position. Three figures stride towards them, tough-looking men in a motley array of clothing; some of it most likely stolen from the lost ships or their crew. The group wait patiently for the wreckers to walk into their midst. As they approach, Elefthenea sneezes – but just at that moment the wreckers burst into laughter at some unheard joke, and they miss the warning. Suddenly, Raylin and Lawson spring to their feet, weapons ready but lowered; the others stay hidden, but keep hold of their bows in case of trouble. Raylin throws up a hand and commands the patrol to stop. They’re startled, which gives her just enough time to forestall an attack. Before they can act, she calls out loudly that she’s here to make a deal, she will pay well for information, and she doesn’t particularly want to kill them.

  Despite the armoured bodyguard standing beside her, the well-dressed (if somewhat grubby) priestess doesn’t seem much of a threat to the three burly wreckers. They’re quite amused by her proclamation and pause a moment to listen, grinning.
  “Go on then, lass,” one of them calls, toying lightly with a crossbow.
  Raylin makes a hasty offer. She wants them to tell her the layout of the camp, the number of wreckers and so on; and finally, not to back up the other wreckers if a fight breaks out. They seem a little taken aback, and inclined to scoff, but the leader of the bunch is wily enough to sense that something’s in the offing.
  “Oh, is that all? How much?”
  “How much do you want?”
  “...a hundred crowns and I’ll spill the gaff,” says the leader, glancing briefly at the other two.
  Raylin folds her arms. “How much is your life worth to you? I don’t have a hundred crowns with me.”
  “...fifty crowns, then,” he suggests, begrudgingly.
  After some tense discussion, they haggle it down to a reasonable sum.
  “Why don’t we shake hands on thirty-five?” offers Raylin. Lawson nudges her.
  “Do you really want to stroll into the middle of those fellows to shake hands?”
  “I mean, why don’t we call it thirty-five,” she corrects. They grin gap-toothed smiles, broken with the glint of gold teeth – or something like gold, anyway.

  With some prodding, the wreckers divvy up a bit of information on the camp, the ‘two or three’ sentries they post at night, and the ‘about a dozen’ wreckers. Raylin gets the feeling they’re being at least broadly honest. Their vagueness seems part reluctance to turn coat on their comrades, and partly down to erratic discipline and whimsical leadership.
  “Who’s your leader?” demands Raylin.
  “Erqua,” grunts one of the wreckers.
  “How can I recognise him?”
  “Him?” The man’s lips twitch. “Don’t go saying that to her.”
  “Her, then.”
  “She’s middling high, wiry strong. Good red hair.”
  “Human?”
  He shrugs. “More or less...”
  She switches tack, asking the leader about the lizardfolk. He confirms that there has been a skirmish over felling trees in the forest, but he wasn’t there, and nods to one of his men to take up the tale. He says that a dozen or so of the lizardfolk attacked them while they were dragging trees back to the camp.
  “Whose were the graves we saw down by the woods? Theirs or yours?”
  “Ah, those were ours... but don’t worry,” with a grin. “They come off worse.”
  Seeing as the pirates lost at least three men, that doesn’t bode well for the lizardfolk.

  After a couple of minutes, the wreckers notice the others lurking nearby. They clam up and look belligerent again, standing back to back and raising their bows. It’s hard to say what their original intentions were, whether they took the deal seriously or planned to attack Raylin and Lawson once their curiosity was satisfied – now they clearly want to get away from an uneven fight. They demand their money and start trying to back out of the circle. Raylin tries to keep them talking, but they say they’ve answered enough questions and want their pay. After a little terse argument, she gives them seventeen crowns – half the original pay – with the promise of the rest once the wreckers are defeated. They grab it and slide off warily, heading inland rather than back towards the camp. What they’ll do now is anyone’s guess.

  The party head back towards the camp, initially planning to make a quick attack while at least three are out on patrol. On the way, they talk it over, and half-a-dozen plans are discussed and abandoned. In the end they decide to wait until most of the gang are asleep and try to quietly take out the watchmen. It may mean that the patrol they just met will slink back to the camp and warn them, in which case things may be tough; however, they don’t think they can expect to win a stand-up fight if there are still seven or eight wreckers in the camp. Elefthenea agrees to keep watch from the undergrowth nearby to get a better feel for the place, while Morgan and Lawson lurk nearby as backup.

  Meanwhile, Raylin and the Professor, escorted by Fhastina, will try to contact the lizardfolk and see if they can provide any information or backup. There’s a chance they might be attacked, if the lizardfolk have become wary of humanoids, but they got on peacefully enough with the lighthouse crew. With any luck they’ll be willing to help out, or at least provide advice.

  “We’re off to see the lizard...” chants the Professor quietly.

Seawell: wreckers!

  Mr. Barky is in a sorry state, but still mobile. Luckily, the bolt is fairly easy to remove. They decide to leave him in the undergrowth here, keeping watch for anyone following them and nursing his wound.

  Lawson cautions against too much hurry in case of an ambush, so they proceed at a swift stride, keeping fairly close to the dunes to minimise their exposure. Down by the water’s edge, they notice considerable amounts of worked wood washed up alongside the usual natural debris. Fhastina’s sharp eyes spot a body sprawled unmoving in the rocks; after a hurried debate they decide to keep going, anxious to investigate the tower before any alarm can be raised. They keep a close watch behind them. Approaching the tower, they notice that the nearby landscape slopes up considerably, so the dunes form a backdrop to the tower; from the sea it would be quite hard to notice it was even here. The Professor sends Cedric soaring ahead to wheel over the tower, but senses nothing more than mild irritation at still being awake in the daytime. It should be safe to approach.

  The tower is a tall, rather ramshackle wooden construction, though none of them have the engineering skill to deduce more than that. It seems to be built around a single central pole, nearly sixty feet high, and mostly consists of stairs and ladders spiralling up around it to a platform at the top. There is brief discussion about who should go up first, until Lawson sighs resignedly and starts to make his cautious and creaking way up the tower, shield raised against any unexpected attack. Elefthenea keeps a watch on the dunes, while the others follow Lawson. As they ascend, they realise that the central pole is a single treetrunk, which has many symbols in crude Draconic carved lightly into its bark, not deep enough to cause any harm. Raylin isn’t familiar enough with lizardfolk beliefs to make much of them, but they seem definitely devotional in nature. At the top they find a bronze dish nearly two metres across, tightly secured to the tower and full of wood ash. Combined with the massacre at the lighthouse, it seems conclusive evidence that wreckers are at work. They hurry back down and discuss the matter with Elefthenea. She examines the tree and quickly deduces that it must have been very old. It must have come from some distance into the forest; there’s only scrub nearby. Fhastina has a look around, and though the sand is soft and shifting, she manages to discern a vague trail where people have come to and from the tower over the dunes.

  The next question is what to do about the wreckers’ tower. They’re keen to put it out of use, but the problem is, how? The Professor is keen to burn it, but there’s no fuel left in the bowl. In any case, even if they could get it alight, the column of smoke would attract attention from miles around; though it would certainly slow down the wreckers even if they do rebuild it. Raylin suggests simply tipping the bowl from the top, but Fhastina points out that it would be a pretty noisy impact and they’re still trying to be discreet. In any case, what’s to stop them simply dragging it back to the top? At last they decide to leave the place for now, and come back to it if necessary. Since there aren’t any guards here it shouldn’t be too difficult to destroy later. They drag the reluctant Professor away and go to examine the body on the shore, leaving Lawson on watch.

  The corpse turns out to be a fairly nondescript man in common sailor’s garb, who looks like a Culchite, though apparently not one local enough to have escaped the reef. The body has clearly been in the water for at least a day, and is in a bad state. Fhastina drags it above the tidemark and Raylin says a few prayers over it, before removing the man’s sea-charm necklace in case they can locate his family. There’s not much else they can do for him now.

  Unwilling to venture over the dunes in case they run into an ambush, they decide to retrace their steps to meet up with Mr. Barky. The wolf is pleased to see Elefthenea again, and seems somewhat better after his rest. They head out to the point where they met the wreckers’ patrol, and check the trail. It seems that the wreckers were following an established patrol route a little distance away, and came to investigate when they heard something suspicious. The trail shows repeated passage of small groups over a number of weeks, though it’s not well-worn enough to be a proper path. Since most of the prints are heading roughly towards the tower, they decide it’s a circular route and decide to proceed parallel to the tracks, keeping a wary eye out for the wreckers they met earlier. However, about half an hour has passed, so it seems most likely those men have returned to their base.

  The land is scrubby and provides moderate cover, but they move quietly and carefully to minimise the risks. They're pretty stealthy, except for the noise of Elefthenea fussing over Mr. Barky's injured leg. The wolf exudes a long-suffering air curiously reminiscent of the one worn by Lawson. Cedric turns his head backwards from his position on the Professor's shoulder to peer back at him. Mr. Barky shoots him a look that the observant passer-by, with a little knowledge of lupine psychology, might venture to translate along the lines of “elves, eh?”. After few hundred yards, Elefthenea looks up long enough to spot a disturbed area nearby and they head off to examine it. There are signs of a scuffle here, with snapped branches on the bushes, and the confused marks of both booted and lizardfolk feet. A broken javelin is embedded in the ground. Apparently the wreckers have had some trouble with the locals. Raylin suggests that the vandalism they’ve seen might explain the antagonism.

  “Perhaps that tree we saw was some kind of totem pole,” offers the Professor.
  “We might be able to return it, and... improve diplomatic relations,” suggests Elefthenea, who is more used to the wilderness than discussing politics. “And you know, that’s another reason why it’s probably not a good idea to burn it.”
  “Yes, I suppose so,” he agrees, a little begrudgingly.

  A little further on, there is a break in the undergrowth due to sandier soil, and Fhastina notices the earth has been disturbed. On closer inspection, there are a number of spots that seem to have been dug up recently. They are portentously person-sized, and unmarked. They briefly wonder whether these are human or lizardfolk graves, as nobody can remember what it is lizardfolk do with their dead. In the end, they decide it doesn’t matter much. A skirmish has occurred and someone won; this seems like the closest spot where it would be easy to dig graves. Digging them up wouldn’t really help the adventurers decide what to do next.

  By this stage, Raylin is quite keen to try and contact the lizardfolk. If there’s animosity between them and the wreckers, perhaps they could help her group, or at least give them more information about what’s going on. Fhastina, being a soldier, is rather more cautious. If the lizardfolk are hostile to hominids, they might not get much chance to explain themselves. They decide that it’s a good idea in principle, but would need careful handling. For the moment, they choose to keep following the tracks and see what they can learn.

  As they reach a point that Elefthenea guesses is roughly parallel to the wooden tower, more patrol routes begin to fork into the one they’re following. Examining the tracks, they decide that they’re probably near the origin point of the patrols. Most likely, groups of wreckers come out of a base and split off into several different routes, probably looking out for lizardfolk. The unified trail passes into a hillocky region with a fair bit of cover. Stealth is now a crucial matter. Elefthenea and Fhastina, being the sharp-eyed elves, start to slip forward and sneak through the undergrowth to the top of one of the rises. As they arrive, they see a clearing has been made in a little glen, with the undergrowth hacked back and burned clear. In the centre is a small camp with a sturdy wooden fence around it.

  “They’ve cleared the bushes so nobody can sneak up on them,” whispers Fhastina. “It’ll give them time to sound the alarm before anyone can reach the fence.”

Their position gives them a reasonable view, but the fence and camp buildings make it hard to make out much detail without venturing into the open. The buildings seem to be simple bivouacs or tents reinforced with branches, perhaps to stop them blowing away if the sea breezes get too strong. There are four or five figures visible around the camp, all of whom seem to be armed. A couple are working on the fence, and another doing something with a heap of crates and boxes; salvage from a wreck, it would seem. Chickens peck and scratch around the place. There are presumably pack animals somewhere in the camp as well; the mules from the lighthouse compound were missing. The two elves circle around the camp to get a better look, and notice two figures leaving a shelter and heading off out of the camp along a patrol route. Judging from the size of the camp, there could be anywhere from ten to twenty residents, and it must have taken quite a few to build the camp and tower in the first place. They slip back to their comrades without apparently attracting any attention.

  “Tents?” says the Professor. “Those burn very well. How are we off for flaming arrows?”

  There is a brief pause, while everyone looks sternly at the gnome. Elefthenea explains that it’s not really clear how many wreckers there are, but they’re clearly ready to defend themselves. Of course, it’s hard to say how many are actually in the base, and how many are on patrol. If the men they disturbed earlier have returned to the camp, perhaps they’re all out searching for the adventurers.

  They fall to debating what to do next. The four main options seem to be destroying the tower; attacking the camp; trying to waylay one of the patrols; and trying to contact the lizardfolk. Raylin favours the latter, since she’s much more comfortable with diplomacy and discussion than with fighting people. None of them are especially keen on launching a frontal attack on the camp before they know much more.

  “History tells us that in battle, smaller numbers of attackers are generally unsuccessful,” points out the Professor.

  At the moment, even if the bandits know they’re here, all they’ve seen are two figures possibly associated with a wolf: who knows how they’ll interpret that? They might just have been hunters annoyed at the wreckers trying to pinch their kill. However, taking any drastic action will certainly tell the wreckers what’s going on, which means burning down the tower may not be the best strategy. It seems that the next step is to watch the patrols and see if there’s a good opportunity to eliminate one...

Seawell: the lighthouse

  The lighthouse compound is like a small fort, with a wooden palisade surrounding several huts and leading out to the lighthouse itself. There’s no sign of smoke and no obvious damage to the compound; on the other hand, there’s no sign of activity either. They head down and knock at the gate. Nothing. A push shows that it’s open, and they quickly find that it’s been forced. The sandy ground doesn’t show much, but there are some scuff-marks. More strikingly, the compound is shockingly empty. The supplies, tools and livestock that should be here are prominently absent, and all is quiet except for the crooning of gulls overhead. Even the barracks is empty, and storage chests lie open on the floor. All eyes are drawn to the lighthouse, whose door swings gently in the salty breeze.

  The Professor, Morgan and Lawson wait in the compound to guard the horses, worried that something might be lurking here. Fhastina is the stealthiest, disdaining armour, and she pads upstairs as silently as the night. There are sinister dark patches on the steps, leading up into a room on the second floor. She beckons Elefthenea after her, and the two elves stand listening. There’s not a sound, but a faint and unwelcome scent tells them what’s inside. Pushing the door carefully open, they find six bodies piled in a heap. Boxes seem to have been stacked up against the door, but lie toppled nearby. They don’t care to examine the bodies too closely, and there’s little need, but crossbow bolts produce plainly from some of them. A bare arm sprawled across the floor looks curiously charred. Not even Raylin can do anything for these poor souls. It seems unlikely that anything’s still lurking here, and they hurry upstairs to examine the light itself. Before they even reach it, the scent of oil rises strongly to their nostrils. Glass crunches under their feet as they step into the room, and find both the lamps and the mirrors shattered.

  Peering from the top of the lighthouse, they see the dunes and scrubland stretch out around them. About a mile away to the east, a tall spindly structure seems to sprout from the shoreline. It’s too far to make out what it is, but neither Fhastina nor Morgan has seen it before. That seems like the most obvious spot to investigate next. They decide to approach warily, circling around through the scrub to avoid detection.

  They quickly fettle a repair to the compound gate, and Morgan remains behind with the horses, watching from the top of the tower for any hostile approach. The others strike out through the undergrowth, crouching and even crawling when necessary. Unfortunately, neither the Professor nor Lawson is particularly subtle, and their voices carry rather well on the sea breeze. Only a warning from the owl circling far above gives them time to duck back into the bushes as someone approaches. Watching for a while, they see two figures walking slowly along a rough trail, heading vaguely towards the camp. They seem watchful and wary, and carry weaponlike objects by their sides. Hoping to reassure them, Elefthenea persuades Mr. Barky to trot slowly out of cover; only a wild animal, after all!

  “Yes, one of those dune wolves one reads about,” mutters the Professor.

  The figures pause and watch the wolf as he pads softly through the dunes; then one of them smoothly raises a weapon to its chest. Before anyone can react, there is a faint distant click, and an anguished howl splits the air, before Mr. Barky scrabbles off into thicker cover, a crossbow bolt protruding from his right shoulder. A shout of triumph follows.

  Everyone grabs for a weapon. While Fhastina and Lawson begin scurrying round for a better angle of attack, the civilians leap to their feet with crossbows raised and Rayling bellows a furious order to stop. Suddenly confronted with three armed opponents where a stray wolf used to be, and having just discharged their crossbows, the figures gawp in amazement for a moment; then they turn and bolt into the undergrowth, and are quickly lost to sight. Nobody feels like shooting down a fleeing opponent, and the figures aren’t headed for the tower, at least for the moment. Raylin points out that, unlikely as it seems, they might just have been hunters. Nevertheless, it’s time to get a move on in case anyone raises the alarm; just as soon as they make sure Mr. Barky is still in one piece.

Seawell: to the lighthouse

  In the morning, there’s still no sign of the delegates. The Duchess's agents rise at dawn and meet with Iniatar, who has arranged everything for the expedition. Fresh horses (and a donkey for the Professor) are loaded up with provisions, and a local hunter named Morgan has agreed to guide them through the swamps. Hopefully his experience can keep them from falling foul of the lizardfolk. Talking to Morgan, they get the distinct impression that lizardfolk occasionally fall foul of him, but keep any misgivings to themselves.

  Morgan gives them a quick précis of the journey ahead of them. The peninsula is split by a river, which floods much of the area during the rainy season, but is fairly narrow just now. It’s not very deep, so easy to ford. The terrain is boggy with clumps of trees and small lakes; towards the coast it slowly turns into scrubland and then sand. The latter parts of the journey should be safe enough, but the swamps are home to snakes and crocodiles, let alone the endless insects. The lizardfolk are another problem; they’re unpredictable and each tribe is different, so it’s hard to say what they might do.

  After a quick meal, they head off. It takes about an hour to leave the farmland and head into the wilderness beyond. Despite the recent storms, it’s relatively dry and they make good progress. After a few hours’ riding, Fhastina’s mind is lulled by the motion of the horse, and she doesn’t notice a boa hanging from a branch. It snaps at her as she passes, but she flinches away just in time and it slithers off, disappointed. Clouds of flies pester everyone, and the Professor grumbles a great deal about the lack of suitable magic for discouraging biting insects. Something to research for future missions.

  It’s dark by the time they reach the shores of the river. They find a good spot to make camp for the night, some distance away. Lighting a fire only seems likely to attract attention, and it’s quite a warm night. Morgan stays up for a while to fish, and catches some nice plump eels. The Professor assures them that Cedric can keep watch, so having seen no sign of people, they don’t worry too much.

  They’re awakened in the small hours by the terrified screaming of their horses. Elefthenea plucks a fruit from the tree she’s kipping in and throws it towards the sound, muttering a spell as she does. The apple bursts into light, revealing a leopard clinging to the throat of Lawson’s horse, which is bloody and on its knees. They scramble for weapons. Irritated at having his sleep disturbed, the Professor strides up impatiently and starts chanting, while strange lights circle around him. The leopard releases its grip on the horse, and both animals stare in fascination at the wizard.

  There’s a rapid muttered conversation about what to do. The Professor can only keep the leopard’s interest for so long, and even if Elefthenea tries to send it away it’ll probably be drawn back by the scent of blood. They need to kill it or drive it off. Morgan slinks up to it, shortsword in hand, and makes a sudden leap for its throat. The cat springs aside, so the hunter falls flat on the floor and buries his blade into the moss. His embarrassment turns to pain as the leopard shows him how the thing is done, leaping atop him and worrying at his leather-clad back, while he frantically protects his head with his gauntlets. A crossbow bolt grazes the leopard and evokes a pained hiss. Moments later, a second furry figure crashes into the cat and both go rolling away into the trees. There are crashing sounds, and after a while Mr. Barky trots smugly back into the camp, while something else fades away into the forest. Raylin has to call on the Goddess to heal both Morgan and the horse, which is on its last legs. Careful tending overnight and further prayers leave both strong enough to continue the journey the next morning.

  They eye the river cautiously, but there’s no obvious sign of crocodiles or snakes. The crocodiles are more likely lurking in the remaining deep lakes. It takes about twenty minutes to cross the shallow waters, leading their horses. The Professor, who would find himself chin-deep in the water, elects to stay mounted. Partway across the river, his donkey is bitten by something and starts to flail, but the Professor manages to keep his balance and make the journey safely. Mr. Barky, swimming across, is nearly swept away by a strong current, but his mistress catches hold of his scruff and strolls serenely on, horse in the left hand and wolf in the right.

  Both Morgan and Fhastina manage to lose their footing and go sprawling in the river, coming up sodden and muddy. Lawson gives a long-suffering glance to the druid and mutters something under his breath about provincial amateurs.

  Reaching the other side in comparative safety, they soon find traces of people. The trails show signs of deliberate clearing, and there are clawed footprints in muddy places. After a while, they encounter a series of trees that have been carefully carved with markings in draconic script. Between them, they interpret them as lizardfolk boundary-markers, showing the outer extend of tribal hunting-grounds. They proceed with caution, but the Professor's donkey is pained by its injury and lets out occasional loud brays that send birds skittering for cover.

  A little later on, as they pick their way across a bog, Fhastina’s keen eyes spot a figure watching them from a rise in the distance. Its posture marks it out as a lizardfolk. It doesn’t move, but watches them until they disappear out of sight. Raylin suggests going to talk to it, but the others argue it’s best not to get involved with the lizardfolk if they don’t have to. Who knows what might be going on? They don’t want to get mixed up in any tribal wars.

  Approaching the coast, the swamps slowly fade into scrubby forest, and the soil becomes firmer and sandier. They find another string of boundary markers; but these have been hacked away and nearly obliterated. The damage is clearly recent. The soft mud shows bootprints heading down a trail perpendicular to their path. The adventurers are quite concerned by this apparent vandalism, but decide it’s best to press on, rather than heading off on a tangent. The lighthouse is close and they might be able to solve the puzzle quickly. The forest gives way to bushes, and then to dunes peppered with sharp marram grass. As they carefully rise over a high dune, the compound comes into view.

Seawell: arrival and signs of trouble

  The storm has cleared up, and they head off early towards Seawell, having easily found the road. It’s a fairly easy journey, and they see little but the odd group of traders, a couple of hunters and some wildlife. Once they leave the valleys for the coastal plains, they pass farmers and small villages by the wayside. They pause briefly for a quick meal at a farmhouse. Eventually they reach the first turnpike for Seawell, watched by two guards. They present their papers and signet ring, and are waved through, with instructions to call in at the garrison when they arrive. They pass two watchtowers (a precaution against bandits and raiders) before the road winds down to the town itself. It’s a pretty, well-situated port town, with perhaps two thousand residents and strong palisade walls that speak eloquently of pirates. Murals and mosaics lend a touch of colour between the elegant columns of the public buildings, and two small aqueducts arc across the walls from hillside streams. The town is apparently designed to impress, probably to bolster its standing as a trading port. There are two temples, one for the Pantheon, another dedicated to the gods and spirits of the sea, and Raylin mutters about the superstition of the coastal people. They quickly find the garrison, whose sturdy stone construction, watchtower and slit windows are unmistakable.

  Reporting to the watch officer, they are left in the care of Fhastina, an elven guardswoman. She arranges for their mounts to be cared for, their baggage stowed and offers water to wash their feet. Lawson gives a brief account of the tomb they discovered, and their encounter with the bandits; the authorities need to keep an eye on the place. Fhastina informs them that as well as the arrival of the emissaries, the town is on edge because of tension with the local lizardfolk, who live on the adjacent peninsula. Hunters and herb-gathers in the swamps have been confronted and menaced by the lizardfolk, but they lacked a common language, so it’s not clear what’s going on. The guards are on extra duties until things settle down. There also hasn’t been as much trade as usual for the last few days, but that may be down to the violent storms they’ve been having; nevertheless, it’s a worry for a trading port.

  They hand over the treasure for examination and assessment, before heading off to wash. Raylin goes to the Pantheon temple, makes her obeisances, and strikes up a conversation with an old friend who is now one of the priests here. Soon they’re deep into the technicalities and politics of the faith - mostly the latter. Lawson appears briefly to make the appropriate sacrifices for a safe journey (Raylin gives him an approving glance), then heads back to the garrison to chat with the guards and check his gear.

  After their rest, they meet the local merchants’ guild secretary, Fencher, a serious and slightly nervous man with greying hair. He explains that the emissaries’ ship will have been delayed by the story, but are expected that evening or tomorrow morning, and invites the group to join the guild for their evening meal (they accept). They learn a bit more about the local situation from him and Fhastina. The town lies on one side of a swampy peninsula, sheltered at its base and in a perfect position for fishing and trade. The peninsula itself is no good for farming, and home to a tribe of lizardfolk; they’re quite territorial, and people only enter the swamps when hunting or seeking unusual plants. However, the other side of the peninsula is filled with dangerous reefs that make sailing a hazardous business, so a lighthouse has been erected on that side to help trading ships make the journey safely. A six-man crew operates and guards the lighthouse, changing over once a month; it’s been two weeks since the last change. Since then, the lizardfolk have become unfriendly and nobody’s dared to go far into the swamplands, especially after a couple of hunters disappeared. Local sailors have started to report that the lighthouse hasn’t been lit at night, though it’s not a problem for them. The group discuss the possibility of sending an expeditionary party to check the lighthouse, but realise that meeting the emissaries as agreed is their immediate priority. There are only thirty guards in the town, and none can easily be spared for a dangerous errand if the town might be in danger of attack.

  Professor Godalming decides to visit some of the local scholars to learn more about the lizardfolk, which he hasn’t really encountered before. In particular, he’s interested in their knowledge of illusion magic, and the superstitions they have that might be of use in a confrontation. Fencher introduces the diminutive wizard to Aloysius, a well-respected citizen and considerable landowner, who prides himself on his library. He’s happy to help a fellow-scholar, and once the fine wine and fresh dates have been brought in, they settle down to an enjoyable afternoon amongst the racks of scrolls. The Professor finds that the lizardfolk are primitive and reclusive beings, with little grasp of arcane magic and only simple minds. They produce simple canoes for transport, but generally prefer to swim. Their culture is animist, and many tribes place great importance on ancestor and nature spirits. There is little record of them being actively hostile, but they seem quite protective of their territory.

  Elefthenea heads down to the quayside and settles down to watch the sea, glad of the chance to soak up some nature. The dockers give her a wide berth, and she spends a few hours pleasantly listening to the waves, admiring the seabirds, and even spotting a dolphin in the distance.

  Once evening comes, they head over to the grand, bepillared guildhall and sit outside in the peaceful court for a delicious meal, looking out over the shore. The guildmistress is a decisive elfess named Iniatar, who engages them in pleasant conversation over their meal. Afterwards, they sit out in the twilight, entertained by a few musicians and dancers. After a while, a guard slips quietly in and speaks with Iniatar, who follows him outside. Soon afterwards, she returns and draws the group aside with her to a private room.

  A couple of disturbing reports have come through. Trade from the west has been thin in the last week, which they put down to the weather and chance, and perhaps a lack of piety amongst the citizenry. However, a ship has just returned from a week-long voyage north, and pulled in a sailor’s body and some flotsam on its way to Seawell. Of course, ships do sink, and the weather has been bad recently. More worryingly, a fishing boat ventured west yesterday evening to take a look at the lighthouse. Not only was there no sign of its light, but in the small hours there was unmistakably a large fire burning on the coast; he daren’t venture very close due to the reefs and the poor weather, but suspected it was a ship. The Professor asks her to pass on his commendations to the captain for this show of initiative.

  All those signs together are a strong indication that something is wrong at the lighthouse, and the emissaries are undoubtedly in danger. Iniatar has already asked the guards to send a messenger for more aid, but it’s urgent that something be done immediately. As agents of the Duchess, they are the obvious people to handle such an expedition, and they have a wide range of skills to cope with whatever awaits them. Since Iniatar is a merchant rather than a general, she hands over command of the expedition to Fhastina, who has been to the lighthouse before and knows the peninsula moderately well from serving two years in the guard here.

  The others are willing enough to make the attempt, and realise how important it is to avert any threat to the emissaries. However, they ask whether any guards can be spared for the trip. Iniatar says she’ll have to consider it and speak with the guard captain. She offers a boat to drop them off within a few miles of the lighthouse, but considering the trouble boats are having, they don’t want to risk it; a trek across the swamps seems safer, and they should be fairly dry at this time of year.

  It’s too late to do anything tonight, so they plan and make preparations, then hurry to catch a good night’s rest ready for an early start. If the emissaries arrive overnight, all well and good; otherwise they’ll be ready to leave.

The road to Seawell: Ozymandias

  Having recovered from the worst of the poison, Raylin takes advantage of the rest to heal Lawson, who’s taken a few blows over the course of their fights. Divine power replenishes his strength and halts the flow of blood. Despite many misgivings, they decide it’s time to see what’s lurking behind the last and grandest of the stone doors. As with the three others, its magical ward seems to have been broken by the storm, and it leans precariously against an imposing frame. A gentle tug is enough to swing it aside, to thud against the wall and rest there.

  The room inside is large, grand – and occupied. Heavy spiral-carved columns jut upwards, apparently more decorative than functional. The stone walls are inlaid with panels of etched bronze, still highly polished and free of green patina despite the march of time. Dozens of spears are piled along the walls, each broken carefully in half. In the centre stands a large stone slab, and a large figure is stretched out on it. Coins, nuggets and gold dust have been poured over the bier, and spilled out onto the floor beneath. The creature is clad in a long robe and many ornate cloth belts. Its face is goblinlike, but it is far larger than any goblin, and has a mane of coarse hair. It looks dry and withered, but otherwise intact.

  “This is very interesting!” remarks the Professor. “I’m fairly sure this is what they call a ‘bugbear’. Their civilisation was quite prominent in Thelos at one time, but they vanished centuries ago. I’ve seen a few other bugbear antiquities, but this one is remarkably well-preserved.”

  Raylin is beginning to feel somewhat jaded, and sense a certain inevitability to the creature’s remarkable state of preservation. The room tingles with old magic. Taking a firm grip on her sword, she strides over to the corpse, and seeing an eyelid twitch she stabs it with all her strength. It emits a low, gasping croak and slowly heaves itself off the bier. Raylin calls on the gods to destroy the creature, and it cowers back as brilliant light washes over it, searing its flesh. Interposing his armoured self between the mummy and the lightly-armoured priestess, Lawson manages to trip it over with a well-aimed kick. They seize the opportunity to variously hack, stab, shoot, and in one case bite at the thing while it struggles to recover itself. Despite the quarrels protruding from its torso, it lurches back to its feet and swings a hulking mace at Lawson, cracking his ribs and sending him sprawling back against the wall. Thankfully Mr. Barky leaps forward to distract it, giving him time to recover himself. With its attention firmly on the nimble wolf, the others have time to pound it with crossbow bolts and swords, hacking it apart until the necromatic bindings dissipate and it finally lies still. Apart from Lawson’s injury, they have escaped this battle more or less unscathed.

  Now that the tomb is cleared of dangers, they can finally rest. They tend their wounds and doze by the fire. The rest of the night passes uneventfully, and the storm gradually blows itself out. When morning comes, they poke around the ruins in a more leisurely fashion. They gather up the treasures they’ve found, since nobody else has any need of them. The chieftain’s tomb yields a sizeable bag of gold fragments, and they load the bandits’ loot carefully onto the horses. Raylin and the Professor take a few notes on their discovery to report when they reach civilisation. With their preparations over, it’s time to continue their journey.

The road to Seawell: not alone

  It seems a bad idea to leave anything able to sneak up behind them, so they decide to examine the other side-passage before heading up the main tunnel. It leads down a similar corridor, whose carvings are a little better-preserved. These seem more devotional in character, perhaps funereal or religious scenes? At the end is a substantial stone chamber, with no door and only simple geometric shapes marking the walls. It is empty, except for a stone box in the centre, several feet wide and deep. Wary of further monsters, they peer around cautiously, but discover nothing lurking. At last, the Professor suggests Lawson examine the chest. The others step back cautiously, which proves to be a wise move. As the guardsman carefully heaves up the lid, a hidden catch triggers and bronze flechettes whicker out in all directions. Lawson yelps in pain and reels back with two of the darts protruding between the rings of his mail shirt. Fortunately, the wounds aren’t too deep, and any poison has long since lost its potency. Having pried out the darts, he finds the box carefully packed with what seem to be offerings. A number of wooden items have long-since rotted away, but there are small nuggets of precious metal, two large pearls, and a strangely-patterned circlet of iron and leather that shows no signs of rust. With the danger clearly over, the others cluster round to examine the items, and promptly announce that the circlet has a faintly magical aura. They spend some time studying it and muttering minor incantations, and eventually decide it strengthens the wearer’s mind against attack.

  “I think Lawson should have it,” suggests the Professor, and the others agree, perhaps a little too unanimously to be flattering. However, Lawson accepts the circlet and slides it carefully onto his head, a little suspiciously. It doesn’t seem to do any harm. The rest of the treasures he stows away in his pack, despite a couple of desultory protests.

  Heading down the larger central passageway, they hear the sound of dripping water. There’s the faint light of a storm lantern and voices muttering up ahead; Raylin can just make out complaints about the weather interspersed with what sounds like a game of cards. Someone mutters that there won’t be any pickings to be had in this sort of weather. Bandits, it seems.

  The long stone hall opens out into a larger space, furnished crudely with rotting tables and rusted iron implements. The walls are moss-grown and any decoration is long since lost to the ravages of time. Rain is falling from a crumbling hole in the ceiling, and a knotted rope hangs down from it to the floor. The water trickles out through a opening in one corner, clearly designed as a drain. In a dry corner, a pile of surprisingly new sacks and boxes has been heaped up, and a heap of rags and furs lies nearby. Clearly, someone has been using the place. The lantern casts a faint glow over the room, and picks out Cedric like a white ghost swooping overhead. The Professor feels a pulse of warning from the owl; someone’s here. Despite the rumbling of the storm, the group are making a fair amount of noise stumbling through the stony passages, and two men rise from their game to look around. There’s no opportunity for talking; as soon as the men spot the intruders, they brandish their swords and charge forwards. Mr. Barky dashes forwards to snap at one of them, while Lawson closes with the other. There’s a flurry of clashing metal and the fleshy thud of crossbow bolts, and their attackers are down.

  Searching the room, they confirm their decision that the two men are bandits. The random assortment of sacks, boxes and amphorae look more like plunder than anything. They couldn’t expect anything but execution from the authorities, so it’s no surprise they attacked on sight. Discarding sword and shield, Lawson hauls himself up the rope overhead. In the ruined building above, he finds a recent camp and a sizeable rubbish pile, but nothing else. They leave the goods for now and continue on. Raylin takes a short sword from one of the bandits, as the crossbow is a bit unwieldy in these close quarters. As she does so, she spots arcane symbols on the man's belt, and carefully removes it. It bears a mild load-bearing enchantment to help the wearer carry heay burdens, which the delicate priestess decides will prove quite useful.

  The passage splits now, with a narrow side-tunnel heading off on a sharp angle, while the main passage leads to an ornate stone door. They debate what to do: head into what looks like the most important chamber, or make sure nothing’s lurking behind them? There could easily be more bandits here, or some other horror like the vargouille. Examining the ground, there are signs of footprints near the door, but none seem to go through. Presumably it’s bound with the same enchantments that held the outer doors, so the bandits couldn’t get inside. Even if the spell is now broken, nobody seems to have gone inside, so they decide to check the side-passage.

  The passage is too narrow to walk side-by-side. Ghosting ahead, Cedric suddenly flutters wildly, and a sense of violent alarm makes the Professor wince. The owl barely avoids tangling himself in a large spidersweb that stretches across the ceiling. He balks at the danger and swoops back to the safety of the main tunnel. Feeling the need for stealth, they leave the clanking Lawson as a rearguard. Up ahead they find a doorway whose wood door lies rotting in the corridor. It’s quieter this far into the mound, and smells of dust and time. In the dim glow of the magic light, the floor of the chamber ahead is greyish and irregular. Raylin, Elefthenea, Mr. Barky slip forward to investigate, and the wolf suddenly squirms as he finds himself trapped in another of the webs. As Elefthenea and Raylin try to free him, a huge spider drops from the ceiling above and sinks its fangs into the priestess. Panic ensues. As the injured Raylin staggers away to safety, Elefthenea conjures a giant centipede from thin air to fend off the spider. The two monsters struggle with each other while Mr. Barky tears his way free of the web. Though the centipede can't get a grip on its enemy, the others take advantage of the distraction to hack at the spider in relative safety. By the time the centipede evaporates, the spider is badly wounded. It’s a nasty fight, and Raylin struggles against the numbing poison, but they manage to finish the creature off. As they pause to recover their breath, the Professor spots something glinting amidst the silk-wrapped animal remains: gold! One of the larger bodies turns out to be humanoid, perhaps an unwary third outlaw who stumbled in here? A rotting pouch has spilled its contents, and the Professor gathers up a heap of coin and a small pearl.

The road to Seawell: unwelcome developments

  The storm draws closer and closer, until it’s echoing right overhead.  Lightning strikes the forest nearby.  Looking around the room, they find it carved with stylised images, which show goblin-like creatures and geometric patterns.  The carvings are clearly very old; traces of paint are barely visible in the glow of witchlights.  There are three further doorways in the other four walls, each barred by a stone door carved in an ancient style.  On closer examination, the Professor senses the faint tingle of magic barring the doors.  It is no spell he recognises, and weak as it seems to have grown, none of the spellcasters know how to breach it.  They sit for a while, manage to start a small fire after the Professor dries out some wood, and recover slightly from their journey, though conversation is all but impossible.

  A brilliant flash and simultaneous cataclysmic rumble of thunder overloads their senses for a moment, and with ears ringing they hear crashes from overhead, and the solid thunk of falling stone nearby.  The horses rear up madly and some nearly break their tethers.  It seems the ruined tower has been struck by lightning.  A coppery scent wafts through the room, and looking around, they see the stone doors have toppled, their aging wards finally overloaded by the storm.  An ominous rustling sound grows louder under the howling of the wind, and all at once about a hundred large rats pour out of a doorway and rush across the room.  The travellers scramble out of the way, kicking and swiping at the frenzied rodents, until they melt away into the stones or vanish outside.  The odd painful nip aside, there’s no harm done, though it takes a while to calm the horses after the incident.

  With the doors now open, curiosity and boredom overwhelm caution.  Besides, the dark emptiness of the passages is a little unnerving; not something to have at your back in the middle of a stormy night.  The group decide to quickly check there’s nothing else to worry about, before they bed down for the night.  They retrieve weapons and armour from their packs and make ready.

  They head down the corridor that the rats came from, Mr. Barky and Cedric ghosting ahead quietly to check for danger.  A rat or two scuttles out of sight as they approach.  At the end lies a smaller stone chamber, its floor covered with water that seems to be trickling from one wall.  They conclude that the rats probably had a nest behind the wall, which was damaged by the lightning and started to flood, driving the rats out in a panic.  The water seems to be draining away through the floor, so there’s probably nothing to worry about.  At one end of the room is an oddly-shaped stone sarcophagus, showing a bat-eared figure.  Cedric swoops close to it, intending to perch, but is startled away when the head abruptly rises from the sarcophagus and lets out a piercing shriek.  Several of the party are momentarily dazed by the sound, and the vargouille swoops forward to attack them.  Lawson manages to fend off the cackling head with his shield long enough for Raylin to send a bolt through one of its wings; while it flutters off-balance, he splits it in two with his sword.  They’re rather alarmed by their encounter, but there don’t seem to be any more of the creatures lurking here.  Examining the sarcophagus, Raylin finds the carven head has been worn away to provide a perch for the vargouille.  The rest of the sarcophagus is ornate, in a crude, ancient style.  Inside is mostly dust, but something glints in the light; a small ring of twisted bronze, which exudes a faint magical aura.  The scholars examine it and determine that it aid the wearer in understanding other languages.  Perhaps the owner was a diplomat of some sort?

The road to Seawell: a mighty storm

  The Duchess of Phedes is expecting a trade delegation, who are due to arrive at the port of Seawell in a few of days. Her ministers have assembled a group of emissaries to receive the delegates at Seawell. No problems are expected with the trip, so their main purpose is to meet the delegates and provide an appropriately eminent escort to Phedes; with the secondary mission of subtly tapping them for information and softening them up before the negotiations begin. Once they arrive, more senior officials will take over. The emissaries have their own guards, and such a large party is unlikely to meet with trouble, so the escort is mostly a diplomatic one.

  The group are representatives of various official bodies, and junior agents recently appointed to the Duchess’ service. They’re respectable enough to be both gratifying and unthreatening, but junior enough not to give an obsequious impression. In any case, the higher echelons don’t waste their time on simple tasks like escorting delegates.

  Eleftheana is a druidess from the elven communities of Phedes. Professor Godalming is a gnomish mage of good family, and a member of the Phedic arcane school. Raylin serves as a priestess of the Pantheon and has been favoured with their blessings. All three have some experience of trouble-shooting and basic militia training, and between them should easily handle any problems that arise, social or practical. Just in case, the Duchess sends along a guard for protection and to handle the travel arrangements; Lawson is a professional soldier with no allegiance but to the Duchess, which ensures her interests remain paramount.

  The journey will take nearly two days, despite the excellence of the highways. It’s early summer, but the weather has been stormy recently, and rain pours down most of the day. The road is well-maintained, but their progress is still slow and miserable. In the early evening, as the road descends through a series of wooden valleys, the rain begins to turn to a full-blown gale, and the spellcasters are forced to conjure light to guide their way (Lawson has to rely on a simple lantern). Suddenly, they find their way blocked by a landslide, presumably caused by the torrential rain. After some shouted discussion amidst the howling winds, they turn their horses off the path to look for a way round through the thick woods. The geography is steep and rocky and they’re forced to make quite a detour.

  As they trek wearily through the trees, occasional flashes and rumbles of thunder approach. A cacophonous crash sounds almost overhead, and Lawson and Eleftheana’s horses bolt in fright, plunging off through the trees. The others are forced to follow them. It’s quite a while before they can regain control, and by then they’re lost and wandering uncertainly through thick woods. They decide to follow the slope uphill to try and get their bearings.

  As they approach the top of a hill and start to break free of the trees, a flash of lightning outlines a ruined tower jutting out from it. Heading towards it in search of shelter, they find a rough stone gateway into the hillside itself, and a large stone that seems to have once blocked it. The chamber inside offers enough room for them all and their horses, and seems dry; they decide to head inside and wait out the storm.